Bereft
by Shobogan
Summary: One date Barbara Gordon never had, and one date she might have. Barbara Gordon/Kara Zor-el, Barbara Gordon/Jason Todd


**Notes:** _In Memoriam: 27_ by Lord Alfred Tennyson

_Love and Sorrow_ by Lord Alfred Tennyson

_than never to have loved at all_

They try to go for malts every weekend. Sometimes they can't; Supergirl needs to fight or Linda needs to study, Batgirl has a case or Barbara has a speech. But usually they can make time.

Kara has flown them across the world, cradling Barbara in her arms. It's one of Barbara's favourite moments, wrapping her arms round Kara's neck and bursting forth into the sunlight. Sometimes, when Washington is damp and cold, when she's alone with her weariness, she imagines Kara's arms around her as they float above the clouds.

"So, where to today?" They're in an alley, but the dank darkness doesn't seem to reach Kara. It never does.

Barbara takes a moment to appreciate that as she leans against crumbling bricks. Kara crosses her arms in mock austerity.

"I don't think you're paying attention, Ms. Gordon."

Barbara parts her lips in affected affront, splaying her fingers across her chest. "I'll have you know I'm always paying attention."

"Oh really." She has a second to glimpse a mischievous grin when suddenly Kara's right in front of her. "Catch that?"

"I will if those new lenses work."

Kara rolls her eyes before leaning in and up to peck her on the nose. "No business, Barbara!"

Sometimes they'll talk about being heroes, and sometimes they'll leave that life behind for a little while. They'd agreed that this was a day just for Kara and Babs.

Barbara sighs, and Kara smiles as the cool breath tickles her skin. As always, it's infectious.

"I think…something familiar, this time."

"I know just the place." And suddenly Kara has scooped her up into her arms, and Barbara is laughing, and they're free of grit and grime.

They don't speak as they soar; Barbara's face is buried in Kara's neck, safe from the whipping wind. She breathes in the scent of her – baked apples and sweet vanilla and something she can't define, something crisp and electric – and relaxes in her embrace.

They remain like this when they land, just for a moment, until Barbara swings her feet to the ground and slides her arms down around Kara's waist.

"…You took us to Gotham? That means – " Then Barbara's grinning, and her arms slip away, only for her hand to catch Kara's and pull her along.

It's a small diner, tucked away in one of Gotham's quiet corners. It's built in brick and painted in pastels, stolid and soft. They're greeted with smiles that are weary but warm, and they're pointed to the table they always seem to use.

"Two double malts, strawberry and vanilla?"

Barbara grins up at their waitress, young and cheerful, eyes shining as she twirls a pen in her hand. Mother and daughters have owned this place for about five years, now.

"Got it in one, Jessie. And extra whipped cream." Jessie nods, gliding off without bothering to write it down. Barbara wonders why she bothers with the notepad, really, she's beginning to suspect they have a memory in common.

She turns back to Kara. She has her elbows on the table, fingers linked together to rest her chin on. "So how was your week, Barbara?"

"One day, I'm going to beat you to that question." Barbara leans back, stretching her arms. "It was exhausting, but satisfying."

"Like most weeks, then?"

"Basically. Not to bore you with the details – "

"Oh, Barbara. You could never bore me."

She says it so earnestly, so sincerely, and Barbara remembers why it's so much easier to pour her heart out to this woman than it is to anyone else. Why she can admit so much more.

So she talks - of frustration and triumph, of doubt and determination, of long days and rapid nights - and Kara listens, and the load on her shoulders eases for a while.

Kara talks about her classes, her friends, her adventures in baking with heat vision. About balancing two lives and two families.

By the time they're done they've ordered twice more, and they leave a hefty tip before slipping out into the early evening.

Sometimes, in a world changed, Barbara will pass an old diner. An aching warmth will fill her chest, and she'll taste strawberry and vanilla mingling on her tongue. She'll remember tender security and sweet intimacy.

She will wonder at her wistfulness and move on.

_they never learnt to love who never knew to weep_

It's not often that the Oracle leaves her tower, but she never could resist the call of birds.

So here she is, rolling along at a steady pace, laptop in her bag primed to alert her if she's needed. It's a typical Autumn day, crisp and colourful, and she gives herself some time to enjoy it.

Soon enough, though, the old chili dog stand is in sight. It's not something she'd usually indulge in, but she has to admit, the smell of savoury spice and melting cheese makes her mouth water.

After she grabs her order, she heads to one of the more secluded benches, worn dull and smooth with years of use. He's already waiting for her, lounging against the bench with this arms spread wide, and he waves with a cheeky grin. His smiles are always cheeky, she doesn't think he can help it.

"Hey there, Little Bird." He's not so little now, of course. He's grown into a tall, sturdy young man – her mother, her second mother, would call him strapping.

Not that she'll tell him that. Boy preens enough already.

"Hey, Babs." He scoots over, stretching his arms above his head before settling them on his lap, framing the chilli dog steaming there.

Barbara wheels closer, and sets her chili dog on the bench before smoothly lifting herself out of the chair and onto it. Jason doesn't offer to help, he knows better. Better than most people, nowadays.

"So, what brings you to Gotham?" He works Bludhaven most of the time, these days, when he's not on call with the Titans.

"Couldn't I just want to see a pretty face?"

"Dick will be wounded."

Jason snorts, lifting his chilli dog and gently blowing. He used to scoff them down the minute he got them, and then complain about his burnt tongue. "Dickie can handle it. Dick can handle most things, if you know what I mean." Jason waggles his eyebrows, and Barbara can't help but laugh.

"Really, Jay. If you just wanted to bask in my beauty, we have cameras for that. And don't you even go there."

Jason clamps his mouth shut and does his best to look innocent. It's not overly convincing, and Barbara's chuckling again.

He was the first person to make her laugh, after she was shot. She was the first to make him smile after the warehouse.

"Bruce wanted me to help train the squirt."

"Ah." Tim approached them years ago, when Jason was still recovering. He'd filled the role of Robin, for a time, and been a bit of an assistant for Barbara ever since. Now, well, now Jason has his own identity, and the role needs to be filled again. "How's that going?"

Jason shakes his head. "Kid's iweird/i, Barbara. Looks at me like I'm some kind of –"

"Hero?" The word is warm, her smile soft. Jason just stares at her.

"You're one of the strongest people I know, Jason. That can be pretty overwhelming."

He finally blinks, and this time his smile is slight, almost tender. "Pretty sure that's my line."

Barbara reaches out to clasp his hand, fingers brushing the faint scars there. "We share our strength, remember?"

"Yeah," he whispers, staring down at their hands, "I remember." He was in her window every night when she was in that hospital. Later, she visited his room for hours. They were there through frustrated tears and raging screams, through staunch determination and cautious joy.

There are still things he can't do quite the same way, and things she misses with all her heart. They've learned to compensate, to cope, to carry on. Together.

Jason turns his hand to clasp Barbara's, squeezing gently as he looks up. "Let's take good care of the kid, right? And whoever comes after."

Barbara nods as she squeezes in return. "That's what family is for."

There's that wolfish grin. "So, that make it incest if I really wanna – "

Barbara yanks him close to whack him on the head, but their noses bump, and their cheeks flush, and she can't stop staring into blue eyes that are too old and still bright as her hand falls to stroke his hair.

"Let's say no."


End file.
